One more time

A few hundred more sessions left
This record was practically immortal
It would outlast this thin strip
A private world on its last legs

Even the lightbulbs would die
Before the music
The clumps of dust would have a falling out
Rats would scurry to a fresh alcove of the world
Bacteria would flee to a new host
All harbingers to something better than them
Something infinitely more tragic

In a way it was inspiring to think
That a non-sentient record
Would outlive a billion neurons
By several hundred sessions
And maybe a lonely soul
would hear the record’s death rattle
Passing the music on to another lucky soul


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